Okay, well, this week hasn’t gone very well as far as novel-writing goes.

I can sense the hammer-head of pressure screaming GET ON WITH IT!

This sadistic school teacher’s voice must be tamed, banished into the underworld and fed to Cerebus, the three-headed wasp stung hound. But how? Mmmmm let’s see, a cup of tea? Nay, a  glass of wine? Nay, a fat wedge of cake? Nay, actually writing something,? Nay, a chick flick? Nay, a long hot bath? Nay, saying manana it’ll happen?  Nay. Nay. Nay. How about just ignoring the voice and politely smiling…..

Actually there have been a few good reasons why I’m not off the starting blocks in Usian Bolt style….

  • The Little One has fully dropped her last nap – this annoys me. To add to this, she’s now waking up at 6 am, or before, so there goes the bright idea of writing in the darkness of dawn.
  • I fell down a ladder at the weekend. This was both shocking and tiring. For the unabridged sober account read this. For the  unedited summary please read this, my Facebook status, written on the day the incident happened ….. I should  warn you that some of the language I used would make Voldemort puce. Please forgive me, I was rather wound up at the time….

Apologies for my language but – FUCKING ESTATE AGENTS – went to view a property today – we wanted to view the boarded out loft, so BERNARD (that’s his WANKING name) unfolded the metal ladders from the loft thingy (sorry, can’t think of the word I’m so BLOODY PISSED OFF) without clicking the ladder joints into place properly. So when I’m half way up the whole thing completely collapses, and both the ladder and I fall back onto the landing in a pile. I burst out into tears from shock – could not feel my lower left leg for a number of minutes – then feeling came back, BERNARD offered me a tepid mug of water, muttered something along the lines of sorry, and now I have pain in lower back – all down my leg, and bruising currently forming on my left knee, and feeling very stiff and sorry for myself. Last thing that Alice said to me before daddy put her to bed was, ‘don’t hop on your left leg mummy’. Now I feel a righteous need to use a word that-must-not-be-named. CUNT. CUNT. CUNT. (may have to blog about this).

An aunt overlooked my foul mouthed profanities by simply asking ‘are you moving?’

You should see the bruises though. Deep purple fractals on my knee and ankle. The bottom of my spine is very tender too. I think I may well have to see a doctor about this in case I need to make a claim…..

The novel WILL happen.

3 responses

  1. Pingback: 200 Words « Four Gigs

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